by Marc Strange
“Never heard him.”
“He’s a hoot. Olive loves him. They did a ninety-minute set.”
“Sorry I missed it.”
“Fresh coffee, Champ? Take but a minute.”
“Passing through, Barney. Force of habit.” I lean on the bar for a moment and pinch the worried crease between my eyes. “I think I was going to say goodnight to Olive.”
“They took Baba out for moo shu pork, she and Jimmy.” He pours peppermint schnapps into two ponies and pushes one toward me. “Trust me,” he says. “Perk us both right up.”
If Barney doesn’t know, who would? We click glasses and knock them back. My nostrils open to a Christmas morning and I inhale deeply. For a moment I feel as if I’ve just awakened.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Your friend Weed was looking for you earlier.”
So much for Christmas morn. “I bet he was,” I say.
“He said you got your arm carved up.”
“It’s not too bad,” I say. I’m lying. “What did he want?”
“Didn’t say. Heck, everybody except my Uncle Fred was looking for you tonight. Gritch, Larry Gormé, that blonde with the fingernails, those other two cops — the sad-face one and Rocky three-and-a-half — and ... and ... oh, yeah, Leo’s lawyer, Arnold whatshisname …”
“Köenigsberg.”
“That’s the guy. Left his card. I think they all left cards.”
“Let’s pretend I haven’t seen those yet.”
“Yeah, they’re somewhere, they’ll turn up.” He gives me a careful look. “You okay, Champ? Anything I can do?”
“I wish,” I say. “Too much information and not enough useful information.”
“About?”
“Things that don’t connect to what I’m supposed to be doing.”
“Which is?”
“Someone killed Raquel.”
“Someone not Leo.”
“That’s the basis on which I’m functioning, Barney.”
I make a concerted effort to stand up straight, button my jacket, breathe deeply, trying to recapture that whiff of a winter morning. “I’d better grab a few hours sleep,”
I say. “I have to go to church in the morning.”
Gritch is snoring on the office couch. He has an afghan over his shoulders and his shoes are lined up neatly. I try not to wake him as I check for messages and memos from Rachel.
“You gonna make coffee?” He asks without opening his eyes.
“I was going to bed,” I say.
“What time is it?”
“2:17,” I say.
“Is that all? Feels like I’ve been out for hours. You just get in?”
“Yep.” I sit in Rachel’s new, extremely comfortable and supportive desk chair. “This is a great chair,” I say. “You ever sit in this chair?”
“She’d brain me.”
“Very … embracing.”
“So? You find out anything?”
“Oh, sure. Let’s see, Lenny Alexander’s in the house, he came back with me. He’s been living aboard his father’s yacht. And Leo has a daughter named Rose, by his second wife, the murdered one, and she’s married to Buffalo Bill.”
“So the trip wasn’t a total loss.”
“I got two beers and a slice of maiden cake.”
“You watch yourself around Madge, like I said? She has the hots for you, I’m telling you.”
“She’s practically got a shrine set up over there. The Leo Alexander Library.”
“She was a cutie, back in the day.” His head swivels sharply in response to an inadvertent groan from my direction.
“I think I could use a couple of those damn painkillers,” I say.
“Let me see it.”
“Nothing to see, it’s just sore.”
“Let me see it.”
He peels off my jacket.
“Oh, craps,” he says. “It’s leaking.”
“I might’ve popped a stitch.”
“You think?” he says. “I’m waking up Doctor Dickhead.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Who cares what you’d rather not? You’ve got shit for brains.” He grabs the phone. “Raymond? It’s Gritch.
Get Doc Dickerson out of bed, will you? We have a small emergency. No, not a guest, it’s our resident caveman.
Tell the good doctor we may have to amputate.”
Doctor Lionel Dickerson has been a fixture at the Lord Douglas longer than even Gritch has. A tidy little man, fastidious, well-groomed, and unfailingly polite, even when hauled out of bed at three a.m. Most of his professional expertise is applied to making certain the hotel isn’t liable for lawsuits, although he has delivered at least a dozen babies over the years, and prevented more than few overindulgent guests from choking on their own vomit.
“It’s infected,” he says. “Those stitches have to come out.”
“Can you sew it back up?”
“No, it’ll have to heal from the bottom up this time.”
“Oh, Lord,” I say, “how long will that take?”
“Couple of weeks, I guess. What have you been doing?”
“Nothing. Driving, seeing some people.”
“Well, you tore it loose somewhere down the line and it started bleeding inside. That was a deep cut.”
“I guess.”
“And you’re running a fever. I’ll get the pharmacy to send over some antibiotics.”
Doctor Dickerson hums softly as he snips knots and pulls threads. I look over at Gritch to avoid staring at the widening incision. Gritch is happy to do it for me.
“Wouldn’t it be simpler to take it off at the elbow?”
Doc Dickerson looks like he’s considering the option. “The good news is, it’ll stop hurting once it’s cleaned out and packed,” he says.
“Things are looking up,” I say.
chapter twenty
Fevered dreams come in fragments; inner voices, other voices, my voice, all talking at the same time, switching subjects, arguing, agreeing, dismissing, never shutting up. I have a forlorn conviction that if they’d all be quiet for one minute I could make out what I was saying, but they won’t, and I can’t. I’m trying hard to explain something to a crowd of anonymous people, most of them faceless, the rest with dubious expressions, but I know I’m right, I’m laying it all out for them: you can’t deny this fact, you can’t dismiss this connection, surely to God you can see the sense in this explanation — my logic would be totally convincing if I understood a word of it.
When I wake up the sheets are damp. I feel weak and empty, but the fever has broken, my head is cool, and my arm doesn’t hurt. The idea of a substantial breakfast is appealing.
I shower with my left arm encased in a plastic bag secured at the elbow by an elastic band. After that I attend to what Dr. Dickerson says will be my morning and evening ritual for a while: packing the incision with strips of surgical gauze soaked in a sterile solution. The cut runs along the top of my left forearm which means I can take care of it myself, otherwise I’d need another pair of hands. Tamp the wet gauze down the length of the wound, cover it with a thick pad and wrap the whole thing with a Tensor bandage, not too tight, just enough to make the arm feel protected and more or less functional.
The Lobby Café isn’t open on Sunday, but even if it were, I’d still go to Connor’s for a full breakfast. Most mornings I’m happy with coffee and toast but once in a while I feel the need of something bountiful; something with home fries and peameal bacon and a pair of basted eggs. And toast. And jam.
I slip out the side door and head down the street feeling better than I have in days; physically shaky but unusually clear-headed. My outlook is … positive, no other word for it. Cheating mortality will do that to you. A jolt of euphoria generated by survival. I may not have been at death’s door, but I feel as though I’ve been walking the corridors.
Sunday breakfast at Connor’s is always well-attended; the tables are full and eggs are dancing in butter. I
find a vacant stool at the counter. Duffy Connor, son of the original Connor, also named Duffy, passes me an almost-fresh copy of the Sunday Emblem, along with a mug of coffee. “Brown or white toast?” he asks.
“White,” I say. “I’m indulging myself this morning.”
Leo appears to have lost his newsworthiness. Page five devotes a few inches below the fold to a recap of Leo’s arrest and his possible arraignment and/or bail hearing tomorrow. The byline is Gloria Havers, Larry Gormé’s ambitious young competition on the city crime beat. Her writing style isn’t quite up to Larry’s standards, but she’s on top of things, even manages to allude to “unresolved out-of-province legal matters” that are being “looked into.” Nice.
Breakfast arrives. “Jam or marmalade?” Duffy asks.
“Both,” I say.
“You’re looking chipper,” Gritch says, climbing onto the next stool.
“You aren’t,” I say.
“Yeah, well, while you were enjoying a peaceful night’s repose I was composing your obit, just in case.”
“Did I come off okay?”
“Oh, yeah. Except for the part where I refer to you as ‘witless.’ Other than that, you sound like a swell guy.”
“That’s a comfort.”
“Your recuperative powers are the talk of the institute.”
“You eating?”
“Just coffee please and thank you, Duffy.” He checks the paper. “Nice to see we’re off the front page,” he says.
“I avoided yesterday’s,” I say. “Was it bad?”
“Your pal Gormé’s making a career out of this one.
He had pictures — a very suspicious-looking Bernard Goodier scuttling across Ultra’s lot — plus indirect references to missing limos, Dysart Motors, the brothers Starryk, one Farrel Newton, deceased — you name it, he wrote it up.” Gritch adds generous measures of sugar and cream to his coffee and gives it all a brisk stir. “I saved a copy for your scrapbook — ‘FUBARs I have known, and other major screwups,’ by J. Grundy. Madge Killian will give you a shelf in the archives.”
“I’m glad someone’s grasping the total picture,” I say. “It’s a busted mirror to me.”
“Lotsa pieces,” he agrees.
The eggs and extras having been efficiently attended to. I apply myself to the difficult choice between marmalade and raspberry jam. It’s a weighty decision; I’ve only got one piece of toast left. “In my dream last night I had it all figured out,” I say. “Woke up, couldn’t remember any of it.”
“You remember telling me Leo has a daughter named Rose who was married to Buffalo Bill?”
“Vaguely.”
“How about a daughter named ‘Roselyn’, married, for a time, to someone who called himself ‘Wild’ Bill?”
“Hiscox,” I say. Somehow I think I knew that. No doubt it was one of the things I was trying to explain to my faceless audience.
“That’s her. Brian tracked her down. She writes for the Star in Toronto. ‘Dear Roz’— advice-to-the-lovelorn, spice-up-your-sex-life, where to get the best manicure column.”
I’ve decided on raspberry. It was a hard choice. “Okay,” I say, “that’s new information. Doesn’t exactly uncomplicate things.”
“Must really hate her old man.”
“She still in the house?”
“Oh, yeah, one of our finer suites. She got a big advance from her publisher. Working title of the book-to-be is Desperado Daddy.”
“Feel like going to church?”
“I feel like pretending it’s my day off.”
“Go ahead,” I say. “I’m fine, I’ve got things to do.”
“Exercise restraint,” he says. He has a final sip of coffee and heads for the door. “It’s on your tab.”
“Least I can do,” I say.
Been a long time since I’ve set foot in one, but the scent is familiar; they must buy their incense from the same store the world over. Church always smells like church.
Mass is over. A young priest has come to the front door to say goodbye to a few lingering parishioners. He has sandy hair and earnest eyes. I missed his sermon but the departing faithful look like they got something out of it.
“Father Renfrew?”
“Yes?”
“Could I talk to you for a minute?”
“Of course.”
I lead him off the front steps. “My name is Joe Grundy,” I say. “I work at the Lord Douglas Hotel. I’m here about Raquel Mendez.”
“Oh, yes?”
“You are aware that she was killed last Tuesday night?”
“Who? Raquel Mendez? I’m not sure I know who that is.”
“My apologies. I was under the impression that she came to Mass here every Sunday.”
“Oh, my goodness, you don’t mean Miss Santiago? Raquel? Spanish accent, dark hair?”
“I’m sure that’s her,” I say. Santiago. Definitely not a coincidence. I should share that information with Weed. He might think better of me.
“I looked for her this morning,” he says. “Something happened to her?”
“She was killed Tuesday night.”
“Jesus have mercy on her soul,” he says.
“I’d like to arrange a funeral for her.”
“Certainly,” he says. “When?”
“I’m not sure, Father,” I say. “The police haven’t released the body yet. I should know by tomorrow.”
“That’s terrible,” he says. “Such a nice woman. What did you call her, Mendez?”
“How did she introduce herself to you?”
“Raquel Santiago. I believe she said she was a widow.”
“Okay. Sure,” I say. “Would you be able to do a service for her?”
“Of course. A private service, a Mass?”
“I’ll get back to you on all that,” I say. “I wanted to make sure this was the right place.”
“How was she killed?”
“She was murdered, Father.”
“Oh, my Lord,” he says. “That’s tragic. She seemed so happy lately.”
“You got to know her?”
“Yes, we spoke a number of times. She was concerned about a few things.”
“I don’t suppose you can tell me what they were.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I understand. It’s just that I’m trying to figure out why she, of all people, would be murdered. You knew she was going to have a baby?”
“Yes. She was very happy about that. Concerned about the circumstances, you understand, but very happy, looking forward to her wedding.”
“She was going to be married here?”
“There were things yet to work out, but the child’s father wanted very much to marry her, she said. She had a lovely engagement ring.”
She did? I guess I’m not all that observant. Sometimes she wore earrings, I remember that. Dangling ones. And there was a jewellery box in Leo’s bedroom. Rings and brooches and tangled chains. I put all that into a suitcase. Don’t remember a two-carat sparkler though. Big diamond. Big enough to impress a priest, or maybe it was her excitement that touched him. She was radiant, he said.
She did seem happy that last night, satisfied with her buffet, proud of how Leo looked, perhaps secretly pleased that Vivienne Saunders was about to be given a pink slip. I’m trying to remember the last time I’d seen her before then. Han Chuen Chu. I’m standing in my underwear being measured for a tux; I see her now, across the room, in a doorway, her eyes on Leo. She smiles and complements me on my new boxers, two shades of blue, a gift from Connie. Leo tells her not to ogle. They laugh. They were a couple. She had a ring to prove it.
For the second time in as many days I’m in Raquel’s apartment pawing through her privacy.
The two suitcases are on her bed where I left them. I open the smaller one; it’s the one with the makeup and personal things, her magazines and creams, her jewellery box. The box itself is scuffed pink velvet with brass fittings on the corners. The key is conveniently tied to a r
ibbon. There are a few nice things inside, at least they look nice to me — a double strand of pearls, a delicately carved cameo set in gold, earrings with red gems dangling — rubies, or maybe garnets, how would I know? No two-carat engagement ring. Could be a lot of reasons, maybe she was wearing it, maybe it’s with her personal effects at the morgue, maybe Leo has it in his safe. One thing is certain, if she was proud of it, she was taking care of it, so it should be somewhere logical. Unless it was stolen. Which would baffle me even more than I am right now.
What do I know for a fact? A real fact, not a wild guess. I know that Raquel died, in the kitchen, lying on the floor in her maid’s dress, in a pool of blood … no, that’s not quite right … it wasn’t a maid’s outfit. Her black uniform is lying on the end of the bed. Her comfortable shoes are on the floor. Her closet door is half-open and a red gown is draped across a chair beside a full-length mirror. I get a brief flash of her holding it up, deciding it wasn’t exactly right, that the black cocktail number was better. She was getting ready for a party.
I remember now, bending over her, seeing only blood and broken dishes, she was wearing an apron but there was lace on her skirt, and a slip or a petticoat under that, and she was wearing stockings, and shoes with heels. She’d changed her clothes while we were away at the dinner. Changed more than her clothes. I get the feeling that she was making a statement, about to announce a change in her status. She was going to welcome Leo and his guests back to the penthouse not as hired help, but as hostess.
And for that she would definitely have worn her engagement ring, the emblem of her new position.
She wasn’t only the presumptive Mrs. Leo Alexander (assuming a few legal and religious snags could be negotiated), she had a trump card, she was carrying Leo’s child. Raquel Mendez, née Santiago, was about to declare herself, to Vivienne Griese/Saunders, and to whomever else Leo brought home.
She was in earnest. She’d spoken to a priest, she was either going to get a divorce, or (less likely) an annulment or she was going to call herself a widow and go through a wedding ceremony no matter what the consequences.
Her child was going to be Leo Alexander’s legitimate offspring, whatever the cost to her.
